


deers & flowers

by moon_hedgehog



Category: Hazbin Hotel (Web Series)
Genre: Drabble Collection, F/M, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Mild Gore, Mild Sexual Content, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Way too many AUs, joining this mess of a ship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-27
Updated: 2020-02-29
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:35:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 10,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21574612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moon_hedgehog/pseuds/moon_hedgehog
Summary: to find her in every universe, in every version of time and matter, in every single world.
Relationships: Alastor/Charlie Magne
Comments: 33
Kudos: 209





	1. after me comes the flood

**Author's Note:**

> hi this ship ruined my life a bit so all i write are incoherent poetic allegories i later somehow call drabbles.

He is bored beyond belief. The clock in the living room has been stopped at 10:15 for ages, on a rug on the threshold - unstained dried blood. A head of a dead deer peels into the darkness of an entrance hall with glazed eyes, raindrops flow down the drain outside the window. The world here and the world there merge into one, solid and gray; and he in this world is only a brief flash of red, such as a tidy vest and untidy bowtie. It's getting dark. Alastor spends the whole day looking at the colorless ceiling – in his ears is still a sweet symphony of a scream whose owner tried to escape his knife late last night. Apart from a scream: fragments that rotate on tongue and in the ears like scattered embers of a fire. Trap, crackle, groan. Hit and heat. _Wetness_. The whole charm of hunting is to hunt – his father told him the same late evening, many years ago, putting a rifle in his thin child's fingers. Now Alastor completely agrees with him. In the days after it, he feels empty.

However, not a single demon in this sinful place can afford endless entertainment. Yesterday he quenched his thirst, today he's prone to reflect on it, and tomorrow he'll hide it in the farthest depths of his heart, setting off to fulfill the conditions of a long-standing contract. Sometimes it amuses. In any case, this is better than rotting in an apartment with fox heads chopped off.

•

She shines like the sun. The room around smears in white and pink, gilded around the edges. Her skin is fair as if she's never been caressed by light. Inconsistent murmurs, polite handshakes, and chirping voices cease to exist – there are only her fingers and neck and a scarlet blush of her cheeks. Pendant in the shape of a rose. Eyes hiding under the bangs of hair.

“This is your new partner.”

Her father gives him a look, pursing his lips; Alastor recalls that creaking motel bed they once shared. He recalls the bend of Lucifer's eyebrow, recalls their contract. All words and evidence will remain swallowed if only Alastor agrees to protect his young daughter, who has barely embarked on the path of growing up. Agrees – he grunts; as if the choice has been left and not torn to pieces, just like he did tear his prey under Lucifer's eyes; for what hitherto pays. After all, the Lord of Hell cannot afford to forget the murder of one of his most faithful companions.

Now it is not about him – despite the fact that the family resemblance blooms like that same spiky rose. She makes a slight, playful curtsy in her snow-white short skirt with a red belt, and he loses sight in the curve of her sharp knees. She tucks hair adorned with pearls behind her ear, but it only disobediently gets out in short locks. She smiles at him. Dazzlingly. Honestly. Purely.

She _is_ pure, he is a hunter, and hunters always consume what is innocent.

•

He pulls a signature grin. From afar it's just bare teeth grinning with a threat, teeth of an animal; and apparently, the new victim thinks the same way, 'cause it breaks from a place with a cry. Hunt what you love – his father told him, tearing down the head of a small fawn with one precise gunshot. This little demon has wheat hair.

By the next day, young Miss Magne - “call me Charlie” - almost gets assassinated, for other sinners absolutely do not like the fact she's building more and more “rehabilitation” hotels. It annoys, Alastor catches himself on the thought, and even more than gray days in the gray flat with red spots on walls. It _angers_. And then on a periphery of consciousness finds not “I must protect her” but “she is mine”. She is mine mine mine, like a stopped clock, like a deer's head, like a golden pendant. She grabs his hand, laughing – and he drowns in air. Before, none of those feelings existed. Before, the sun didn't peep.

He shouldn't talk to her: rule number one, which is violated on the first day together.

“Oh no, I don't want you just standing by!” she gasps and he chokes a laugh. Yields.

“Very well.”

He shouldn't indulge her: rule number two, so stupid that she sweeps it with a heap of freshly picked flowers right from his hands, asking for help with another project.

He shouldn't tell about himself: rule number three, too durable, but also destroyed by her sheer determination to break down his walls. And he talks – about the war, about radio, about father, about the metallic-sweetish taste on the tongue. She doesn't and shouldn't understand, and so he shields it from her with a new wall: fragile. More a reminder than a hindrance. Shields, hiding inside the gray flat.

Nights in hunting are replaced by nights under the windows of her house. Alastor has forgotten that besides the rumble of blood in ears, with the advent of darkness can be heard crickets.

•

She covers her mouth with hands. Her wrists are too thin and Alastor stares, even bites his lips, forgetting to stretch them in a usual grin. Dried-up earth beneath them is saturated with red, the curls of guts adorn it like a grotesque pattern – he broke down, she saw it. When he takes a step forward, she backs off and it's like a thorn in the throat or thousands of nails underfoot or a bullet directly to the head.

“Charlie,” almost by syllables, almost religiously he calls; thoughtlessly, without the slightest hope of stopping her.

But she stops. She hesitantly claps her long eyelashes.

The next morning, the royal family throws a pretentious ball, and her hair is once more adorned with pearls. Dead flowers, emeralds. A sickly sweet scent that drives crazy. He watches from behind the shadows, waiting for a convenient moment; he is a hunter, and she is not so pure anymore, but still retains that alluring inner light. Too, as it turned out, burning. She's the sun. He just forgot about it.

That night can be heard only the quiet sound of an orchestra.

She stands by a wide balustrade like prey in the headlights.

“What's after you?” asks, raising her eyes at him with a silent plead, caution, pain – a heady potion of emotions. He leaves, but she cannot stop him. He paid his debt, burned his contract; she doesn't want to believe it.

“After me comes the flood,” he whispers and puts his lips on hers.


	2. good girls go to hell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 80s human au?  
> charlie has turquoise eyes because reasons

Charlie wears way too transparent blouse and a miniskirt – she uses golden eyeliner and ties her naughty hair with a black ribbon. It sets off her turquoise eyes. To mother's complaints “don't go to your stupid parties looking like that”, the girl only purses her lips and flies out the house like an arrow; like all teenagers – snort behind her – she does not want to hear about the past, experience of her parents and teachings of old generations. No, much more fun for her is to dance to sharp music in the glow of a disco-ball and get drunk with cheap alcohol; although her family isn't poor at all and can afford drinks much more elegant. Charlie herself answers all attacks with stoic silence. She does, of course, give a damn, but her innocence still prevents her from giving everything a whole and sober glance. All she wants is a little freedom. From strict rules, tight clothes, etiquette. She's not some kind of princess, just a daughter of a wealthy tycoon. She doesn't want to be treated highly. Even when maternal reproaches give way to worried newspaper headlines. “A new serial killer in town”. Even when her closest friend, Vaggie, shakes her head at offers to escape to nightly entertainment, remaining in the safety of her house. Even when in the middle of a dance, someone's thin fingers fall on her shoulders and she turns to meet curiously-sly red eyes opposite.

•

Alastor's – or at least that's how he introduced himself – suit seemed to have come out of mid-forties; at least that's not the kind of fashion Charlie's used to. No leather jackets and skinny jeans, no retro patterns and bright mishmashes of color. Something elusive hides in the features of his face, had she been more experienced – would've understood this was danger. But she only smiles broadly in response and circles him in a wild, arrhythmic dance. By the middle of the night, her lower lip is bitten by other's teeth, and her tongue has a tart taste of blood. Is this the freedom she so desperately dreamed about? That same adrenaline rush that's so far and inaccessible for someone of her status?

He apologizes, but she just wraps her arms around his neck and pulls him closer.

In her chest quivers a heart, foreboding either the beginning of the end or the birth of something new. She dismisses it as naively as leans forward, giving her new acquaintance a new kiss. Very light, like wings of a butterfly or touch of rose petals; he leads her further, demandingly digging into her lips with his own. The cycle repeats itself anew, closing in a scarlet stream flowing down her chin. Alastor wipes it off with a thumb and, as if in a too bright and neon dream, Charlie watches him bring it to his mouth. Does she taste good?

•

His apartment is too stuffy, and the kitchen door slams shut as soon as she notices several hooks hanging from the ceiling. It is not so important, she swallows, as it doesn't matter that under Alastor's pillow one can find a cleaver. It is also not so important that she has never been with a man before; not so important that a tremor shakes her hands. She doesn't know what and to whom she wants to prove, but nevertheless stubbornly intercepts his wrist and looks directly into his eyes and catches his hair of color of amber flame. Alastor is even lost for a moment, smile sliding off his face; she can see his confusion and his desire and his _thirst_.

“I have never met anyone like you, darling,” he admits, trying to control his spilling feelings.

Does this mean you won't destroy me? - she thinks.

Or is it too late to ask such questions?

He touches her confidently, movements verified – as if he did it more than once or twice, although for some reason Charlie believes otherwise. He makes her bend and sob on the carefully made sheets of his bed. When he falls asleep burying face in her shoulder, her hand slides to the cleaver – metal shines under the moonlight. At the throbbing with veins throat, it looks especially aesthetically pleasing, and forgetting herself for a second, Charlie presses. Her hand is grabbed way too quickly. She twitches. In truth, had she been not ready for the consequences, she wouldn't have followed him. To the slaughter.

Alastor glances over her neck and hair scattered on the pillow.

“Tell me what do I have to do with you, darling.”

She twirls the word “love” on her tongue.


	3. tides

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> charlie has turquoise eyes because reasons [2]

He's gonna find her in every universe.

The sand under his fingers crumbles, scatters on the wind like an incipient storm. Like birds. When all being rolls to hell – even more, to Devil – all that remains is to clutch at what's dear to you. For a creature that has never been attached to anything, it becomes either an aimless torment or a search race. However, Alastor would've sinned having answered he holds nothing close to his gnawed, barely beating heart. She has silky hair the color of a sunny reap. Light turquoise eyes that are like the sea that throws itself on the shore. Laughter as the chime of church bells; chime of something that is so sacred – it is a sin for his ears to listen. He has her, though lost somewhere deep in this world, confused, lonely.

When all being rolls to Devil, he makes a promise to find her.

•

Alastor only remembers flashes and the crimson sky of hell splitting in half. His face burning with unbearable heat, and then he and all the other sinners getting scattered in alternative realities, on this and that side of life. Whether it was the idea of angels or Lord God himself is no longer important when another demon falls victim to their new, inhospitable, and uncomfortable world. Some do not remain in one for long and the being throws them from one extreme to another, from caves to tides, from deserts to glaciers, from pain to hope. The princess of hell whose name brisks like a finch on Alastor's tongue is one of them. And he chases after her, tearing holes in the creation – to spend another day inhaling the trail of her smell.

The interweaving of the threads of their fate unsuccessfully tries to rip off; and he just as desperately prevents it from happening.

•

Next time, instead of endless sands it is a snow-covered city. Its inhabitants are only shadows, milling around the corners and ruined remains of houses, too weak to attack; too proud to die. He seeks out her trace like a hound he so hates; like a mother who's lost a cub; like a drowning man – his lifebuoy. Of signs, she leaves behind only ribbons on clumsy trees and stones crushed in dust. Red, green, yellow. These colors are the only thing that brightens up a bleak landscape. Without these colors, Alastor would surely have lost all hope long ago.

But he stubbornly goes forward. And his path is inexorably endless.

As soon as their eyes meet, a burst of energy sucks her into the crater of the next universe – he can open own portals, he can pause the flow of time, but is absolutely helpless in trying to give her a hand. When he settles on the snow and a painful smile on his lips bursts with blood, in his ears her scream. Thin. Broken. Did she lose hope of meeting him again? Did he? And if so, how could he? After all, he remembers, perfectly remembers and “I like you” and “silly, I'm not going anywhere” and “lose a bet – and no kiss”. Every moment, every second, it scrolls through his head like a cassette, the never-ending muttering of a looped radio station, prayer. While popes and priests curse his name, grumbling saliva on the stained-glass windows, he gets up and continues his way.

He's gonna find her in every universe, in every version of time and matter, in every single world. He's gonna find her and take her back home. He promised that. And he's not the one who breaks promises.


	4. brooklyn baby

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yet another fandom knows about my utter obsession with lana del rey.

The sun is just rising over the world, but Charlie hasn't been up to sleep for quite some time – weaving daisies into her thick hair right on the run, she's humming a melody under her nose, rushing down the lane. The asphalt under her feet is painted in light as if she's stepping on hot gold. Somewhere there, behind the lane, she's awaited by people with whom spends almost every evening – her own little band, drummer, bass player, saxophonist (and she; she who collects old vinyl records and composes lullabies). To this town, they give a piece of themselves and a piece of beauty, and that is just what has always been her dream.

•

In the glass outside the eatery's windows dances the scorching afternoon sun, while Charlie licks her dry lips, running from one table to another. A little more, and from tastelessly painted pink walls and ticking clocks, she'll begin to vomit – so at some point, she hides behind the counter and slides down to the floor. Not like that she imagined her life in childhood; although she hardly remembers it. It's only chaotic flashes in red skies. When she finds the strength to stand up and re-tie the waitress's apron at her waist, a new visitor is waiting for her at the far table. She looks into his eyes much longer than she's supposed to.

•

“I've been searching for you.”

“Searching?”

“You wouldn't remember.”

Seems like Alastor can play many instruments, but guitar is clearly not one of them. Since her tiny group fell apart, in evenings with him Charlie finds a way out: when she helps him sort out the strings, memorize notes, even fool around, playing random tunes. He's like someone she forgot a very-very long time ago. When he sits down next to her, she feels at home. Maybe that's why she invites him in to stay the night in the first week of their acquaintance. Maybe because she's too tired to feel alone. All these conjectures are not so important. Pain dissolves in him.

•

When they run away on one muggy summer night, Charlie laughs – for the first time in years. He looks at her for so long she fears they'll get into a car crash. He says to leave all the empty, gray life behind – she listens. He says she should sing because his guitar will always remain by her side. There are no other people in this story. There are no worlds and circumstances that try to separate them. Only his eyes and her hair and their fingers intertwined.


	5. power, glory

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yet another fandom knows about my utter obsession with lana del rey [2]  
>  ~~i swear to satan stripper aus will be **the** death of me~~

He takes a sip and runs his tongue over the glass, taking in the remaining liquor. The club is stuffy, stale air hanging with sweat and mixed smell of male colognes; dance floors revolve around tables with guests greedy for bread and circuses. Both the second and the first, today those will receive in full.

“I ordered a special show,” his to-be business partner laughs loudly. Selflessly runs his shaggy hand over a protruding belly.

Alastor crushes a chuckle of disgust.

His eyes, however, betray quickly – after a moment being riveted to a wheat-haired, young creature who is literally pushed onto the stage in front of them. The demoness's eyes first run to her customers (although Alastor is not one, and would never have become one of them willingly), then confusedly and scaredly rest on the sparkling floor under her black heels. In addition to them, she has a short dress, barely covering, or even emphasizing all her charms. Seems like she doesn't completely belong to this place, this atmosphere. It's easy to understand.

When she begins her awkward dance, Alastor turns away, not wanting to look interested.

He really isn't.

Really.

•

He's the head of one of the most dangerous crime syndicates in hell and should look accordingly. Therefore, when instead of such a familiar red vest, Alastor's hand reaches for a black jacket – his stylist's eyes go round. Both biker gloves and tight ripped jeans go perfectly with it; the radio demon feels way too weird but keeps that look anyway. At the strip club – part-time brothel, because here there's simply no difference between such things – hungry glances and outstretched hands await him, but today he's not in the spirit, and therefore fascinates the ladies and gentlemen with a cruel smile and hides inside, by the counter with alcohol. Liqueur, gin, vodka, whiskey. Getting drunk in hell is damn easy and overwhelmingly hard at the same time.

“Vaggie, can you pour me—”

Her thin voice is like an electric shock. The ground beneath Alastor's feet staggers when he notices her again, a sinful angel that shouldn't be here. Now she's in closed, yet still open waitress's uniform, on her cheeks a little less blush. He catches himself thinking that—

“Oh. H-hello,” she stammers, noticing a narrow look of his eyes.

He nods, throat dry. She looks for another second and then runs away to the tables.

•

—wants her.

And she is cornered by a gang of local heretics. As soon as they touch her hair, slap her across the face – Alastor can't stand it. One of them is shot dead by his guard. The second spits out his insides on the cold pavement with one movement of his hand. And she – frightened, a doe of this gray-red world – presses her hands to her face and swallows. Slowly gets into his car.

“Thank you,” mutters timidly.

“Where do you live?”

“I think you already know that.”

So, already heard of him. Already understood.

“I'd very much like to learn it from you,” he bites his finger.

There's nothing special in this district of Pentagram City. Clinging to each other houses like ugly remnants of plasticine, which served an impatient and restless child. She nervously tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, mutters gratitude (again), and disappears from sight, dissolving into the rumbling interiors of monsters-homes. Alastor looks after her, unable to tear his eyes off – grins at the memory of the fact that previously he tried not to look interested. Now it inferiors to a desire much stronger. All-consuming. Swallowing.

Desire to _possess._


	6. death flowers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> originally written for a different pairing, rewritten for this.  
> yes. i **love** writing about dysfunctional relationships.

Alastor always comes back – _crawls_ back, smile off; chased by nightmares and curling up at her feet. Charlie is no longer surprised, she stopped counting – but every time feels that she can't bear it anymore. He never touches her (afraid of himself), only looks with red hatred, and Charlie is scared, but swallows tears and gives an answer (there is steel in her voice). This all is a ridiculous roundelay of children with black, empty eye sockets; the princess of hell doesn't know how to get out.

•

Vaggie looks at her best friend with alarm and damned “told you so”. Charlie just turns away and takes a sip of tart coffee. She doesn't need help, she's chosen all this herself, she has come to terms with the consequences. All that remains is to sit by the dirty windows, with a mug in her fingers, and listen to the annoying ticking of the clock. All that remains is to wait.

•

He always returns: flame in his hair, the smell of someone's fear on his neck, bloodied hands. Magne looks at him indifferently, heals his scratches, and locks in her room. Casts a glance at the sheets, casts a glance at the frames of numerous photographs, casts a glance at books falling out the shelf; all this in order, to hear a quiet knock on the door and “forgive-me-Charlie”, hook the ring hanging off her neck and thoughtlessly stare at radio demon's recognizable engraving.

•

Maybe she wasn't right in the decision to rehabilitate demons. So far, Alastor's sins are too much of a burden for her. And falling in love with him was even a worse idea.


	7. make your girlfriend mad type

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~like i don't even listen to billie eilish~~

Vaggie purses her lips so tightly they turn white; clenches fists as if hiding her wrath in them. It's been with her since birth, although she never learned to live with it – for that went to hell. The first few years were too much. They were scary and painful and obscure. Like a kitten, she was thrown into a new, unfamiliar world that did not want to take no one in its arms. And she did always consider herself just that. No one.

Then she met Charlie. A princess of hell turned out to be a cheerful, moony blonde with a pipe dream of re-educating demons. During her life, Vaggie despised such people – here, she reached for her like a moth for light. Warm and gentle, that light that showed her that ugly hell from the other side and warmed on the dark nights of regrets. And, suddenly for herself and too-too fast, Vaggie fell in love. Just like before – to trembling knees and games with folded under the skirt knives. Vaggie fell in love; thoughtlessly, recklessly; now watches that love being taken away.

Now Charlie's light turned into a raging flame – it burns to the ground, like a fire sweeping through a field of flowers. More and more often, in her eyes Vaggie notices such hitherto unknown withdrawnness, and on her fingertips – drops of foreign blood. Before whom she loved, those who had once been called their friends now tremble on their knees; behind her, hiding and tugging at thin strings, is the one whom Vaggie hates more than herself. The radio demon. Lord of Shadows. Great puppeteer. Someone whom Charlie offers her kisses.

He perverted her, changed her beyond recognition; instead of dreaming of absolution, offering the throne and crown. Offering power. Offering only more and more suffering. However, Vaggie is confident that the princess – now, most likely, the future queen – listened to him for only one reason. The reason has four words and thousands of raging feelings; there are so many songs about that reason, it's almost sickening.

Unlike her almost-lover, Vaggie's dream has always been much simpler. Sitting in a corner of an abandoned hotel on broken shards of glass, she only dreams that that stupid reason would be the reason Charlie returns to her.


	8. maybe it's cause i'm wearing your cologne

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay maybe i do listen to billie eilish

In childhood, all that little girls want is a plush unicorn and a prince in pink-shining armor. All Charlie wanted was for the violence around her to stop. In front of her eyes, day by day were dying countless demons – those rightfully called her lieges – whether from the hands of angels, or the hands of their own kind. Locking in her room and hiding in a cozy underbed shelter, the princess wept bitterly, listening to reprimands from her father. For some part, she did understand him: a proud fallen archangel, least of all in the world he dreamed of returning to Heaven that took away his wings. With some, pitied him; yet still clearly understood she couldn't look at the suffering any more. Her father isn't the only victim. Thousands of thousands of those whose souls can be turned to light perish every year.

After some time, she decided to act. Perhaps using family's money secretly wasn't the best idea, but when Lilith found out about it, she only tacitly supported her daughter. Charlie knew she didn't like Hell's current politics; neither she nor Charlie herself dared openly oppose her father. That would be wrong. And so stupid.

•

In childhood, all that little girls want is to become princesses. Charlie was one.

In teenagehood – to meet someone who'll stay nearby. And so Charlie did.

When their eyes crossed, Vaggie was bewildered. She just arrived at this place and didn't really know who she was or what should she do about it now. Seems like as a human she died of a sharp razor that cut the veins of her wrists. Charlie did not dare to let her do the same the second time. Still a young demoness stole her kiss way too quickly. Every day she spent with her, Charlie bathed in the light of the moon she'd never seen. Until that light got too much. Until Vaggie began to put her in the first place – a place the princess had not yet deserved. And so she turned away, feeling as if falling from a cliff into the sea below. To do something impossible is to sacrifice something familiar. Relative. Perhaps Charlie would've lied to herself had she said she once loved Vaggie, but staying with someone who worships you like a deity was wrong. It was, right?

Charlie touched the waters of that sea only with her fingertips – she was caught.

•

In childhood, all that little girls want is to play. When Charlie realized she'd been played, she couldn't take a step back. There was a ruby pendant around her neck and scarlet roses in her hair. Her lips, the color of ripe cherries, still tasted of another's. She had a cologne. His.

Had she not opened the door then, she'd never been spun in a fiery-dangerous tango, which now became her life. Alastor said: “you can change this place only from the inside” and she understood “only by ruling it”. Alastor said: “I'll help you in everything, darling” and she heard “let's overthrow your father”. However, Alastor could stop speaking. From the very first touch, she realized she'd follow him to the ends of the world.

She never returns to an abandoned, broken hotel. To Vaggie, too – though thinks of her occasionally. At a far edge of the dried plains of Hell, she was built a personal palace, and now a wreath of thorns flaunts on her head, Alastor being the one who crowned her. Charlie really didn't want to hurt her father – but her father was the first to try to get rid of her as soon as she claimed the throne. Maybe because Alastor was standing behind her. He told her they were sharing a rather funny history. When her mother rushed to intervene for her, Lucifer only waved her off, as he'd done too many times. Maybe he was right. Maybe he was always right, and she entertained herself with stupid dreams of unicorns, princes, and love.

But now she doesn't need nor the first, nor second, nor third. On her head is a crown, and she herself is the Queen, and even if now her parents aren't going to give up their regalia, they will soon. So says Alastor. So says she.


	9. violet, blue, green, red

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [yet another fandom knows about my utter obsession with lana del rey [3]](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DCYmJDO2_IE)

Charlie's locker hides jars of fireflies. She's been burned too many times and after each rushed to the outskirts of the field where she lives and caught these tiny flying stars, throwing rotting flowers after and creating habitat from a glass prison. The same as hers – locked up in mother's house with a suffocating diagnosis “psychosis”. Words of doctors, however, bother her little. Almost every night, she runs to the nearby town to meet the teens, stubbornly referred to as friends, and smoke marijuana. Every time it's getting easier, because Charlie hasn't ever known a word such as “upbringing”, and the nanny hired by her parents is ready to cover her eyes with palms just for an additional fee. Here, outside, is freedom. There's no white coats and stinking with bleach chambers, no plates with dirty fingerprints and nasty food, no judgmental glances. Here Angel Dust talks about another of his adventures, his hair sleek with spray, and Vaggie snorts somewhere in her scarred wrists. Here there are no saints. Charlie feels more at home than in her own.

Here she has no one to pretend for. She's managed to break the hearts of already four guys – and yes, she counted – the last simply slamming the door before her face with a “you need help!” squeal. I'm already getting it – she almost answered, but shrugged and walked away. No one wants to bother with someone who hides dead fireflies in a locker. Right?

•

For the first time, Charlie notices him at a bar. He drinks whiskey with the detached face of a man who came here not to get drunk, but to ponder. He is much older than anyone she clumsily tried to seduce, and just clapping her eyelashes and pursing her lips would definitely not work; were she a little less high, she wouldn't have considered it at all. But for several days in a row, Charlie saw nothing but nightmares, and so she pulls her hair in a long tail and corrects the shape of her lips with passionate red.

The first thing that he drops, barely seeing her approaching, is

“It doesn't suit you.”

The second

“How old are you?”

So, not looking up from his dumb glass, watched her. Charlie purses her lips no longer coquettishly, but the remnants of euphoria still play in her head, and therefore she defiantly parries

“What does it matter?”

To which the brunet makes a guttural laugh and studies her even more intently, like a hunter closely observing such easy prey that jumped right into his paws. That obsessive, insatiable part of Charlie's brain requires her to do something that will knock him off the track and strangle her smell in his nostrils. With effort, she sends it away – as well as damn precautions, in half with fear dancing in the depths – and inhales his heavy smell, sitting down and closer. The smell with an admixture of blood – but to this, she waves her hand as well.

•

He's one of those of whom they say “something's wrong with”, seeing him staggering through the night streets with a smile on his face and something strangely reminiscent of a knife. There is something wrong with Charlie too, for she accidentally cuts herself with a razor, getting fascinated by studying trickles of red. It doesn't occur to her to rinse and bind them; and so the nanny, finding her in this state, screams through the whole house.

She could lie at the bar then, make a brave face, and proudly raise her head. She didn't.

She's nineteen.

The beginning of life, the heyday of youth and blah-blah. He – Alastor, but her memory still cannot remember this – pushes her hand away when she reaches for his thigh. Clicks his tongue, so instructively that Charlie gets sick. Why did she suddenly decide this is a good idea? Her breathing goes awry, entangling vines curling down her shoulders, and she jumps from place, hastily slamming the bar's front door. If only no one of concerned citizens finds her in this state, she thinks trying not to get dirty in the pools of neon underfoot. He finds her. Next day. Stands by the house in idiotic ironed trousers and sweetly chats with her nanny. She seems to flirt, twisting a lock of hair on an ugly-long finger – Charlie clenches her teeth, hides hands in the sleeves of an ugly-long sweater, and goes down. In the peeping game that follows, wins Alastor.

“Care for a walk?” he muses.

•

Everything starts somehow wrong. Charlie shouldn't fall for him at all – with those previous four guys, she was just playing. It was fun. Now – not. Now she's following around a guy who's twenty-eight, almost peeps into his mouth and unwittingly copies all his phrases and gestures. Studies every corner, every locker of his house – instead of fireflies, meat – hides in the linen of his bed when she's ill. He hardly touches her, he doesn't even fuck her, and gifts kisses very short and to the top of her head. Charlie wants more but understands that more is certain death.

About the time he comes back from hunting, catching her into his house, and— oh, she's never seen so much blood before.

She throws up.

“Will you kill me?” she asks later, curling in his lap in front of the flashing TV.

“Kill?” he chuckles, and Charlie feels as if for a second his plasticine smirk is sliding off. “No, I'll take care of you, dear.”

And he does. Allows to sleep in his bed – hell, brings a teddy bear, weighing nine pounds. Soothes during panic attacks and distracts from hallucinations annoyingly pounding in head. Prepares breakfast, teaches dancing. Says she can follow him. Leave. Run away. He'll make it happen. That was probably all she needed. Under his perseverance, she even quits smoking. And drinking. And hell, clinging to new guys and not using condoms.

What does he need her for? Charlie asks this question time after time – he reassures, every one – but knows very well he just wanted someone who'd wash his clothes after overnight hunts and hide traps and guns in the pantry. She turned out to be a candidate too perfect. And he didn't want to let go.

•

Charlie knows that nothing grows in the garden of their house – the soil is too dead. For her, however, it's all planted with bright scarlet roses, as red as his eyes; as her blood; as a string that tightly ties their hearts together.


	10. ofsacrifices

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kinda a continuation of the previous one, but it doesn't carry the same vibes.

I need a hobby – Charlie suddenly realizes when her brain and eyes get tired of counting the number of knots and curls on a seemingly endless wallpaper pattern. Yes, she needs a hobby, and this isn't moving cans of coffee from drawer to drawer, and isn't washing hands ten times a day in hope of ridding them of reddish stains Charlie knows exist only in her head.

She already tried to earn some money in the local souvenir shop and the tiny museum of history. Both in first and second, the result was deplorable; she laid blame on her condition, being blamed for who she is. “You needn't worry about anything,” time after time repeats Alastor and she has no reason not to believe him because several years have passed since together they moved into the house in a small town and she doesn't need any “special” sickening care, not anything else. In his concept, she only needs to worry about if there's an additional supply of products in the fridge – because their ration contradicts each other fundamentally. Charlie begs to differ. Inaction quietly drives the girl crazy – which, perhaps, would be a rather ridiculous allegory with her diagnosis – and despite the fact that with Alastor she doesn't feel like before, locked in a tight cell of her parents' house; yet their own begins to throb painfully under the skin in exactly the same way. She can't do gardening. From day one, housing lies on the shoulders of her partner. And a taste for parties she lost immediately after meeting him.

After such a vivid awareness of her inaction, Charlie takes up the search – something she could safely be occupied with. Books tire her to turning off lights before her eyes and falling into the gracious darkness of sleep. Along with them goes cooking. After the first trip to the gym, she realizes this isn't hers, and radio and music – Alastor's direct job – interest her only from his words. Though, from his words, absolutely everything interests her. But this doesn't help one iota.

In the end, the point of her outlet becomes a neighbor asking to look after her child. Charlie knows her little, but the woman smiles at her like at an old acquaintance, and despite the instructions of her partner, this makes the girl want to help. Nothing bad will happen, just can't. She's looked at without fear. And in a stranger's house, she's accepted as in her own. Neighbor's child – Niffty, it seems her name is Niffty – looks at Charlie for some time, studying, and then headlong rushes up the stairs and disappears from sight. A hooligan – her neighbor explains – little tireless light. Just like I used to be – Magne chuckles. They spend the next few hours, however, in blessed silence. When she nevertheless decides to check what's happening upstairs, she's met by the clicking of keys and bright flashes on the screen. So, Charlie finds her first hobby. And, despite all skepticism, it's video games.

The second hobby knocks on the door with a heap of laughter, and now she's already hopping-running to a small orphanage located on the outskirts of their town and knocks on the door as an official volunteer. In an endless circle of obsession with herself, she completely forgot about caring for others – now: makes up for it fiercely. Having learned about this, Alastor only bites his lip. She understands. A killer and a volunteer of life – together they make a remarkable couple, and, not even knowing the depth and the darkness of their relationship, whispers about them fly around the whole neighborhood. Charlie is well aware that on his will she'd dump it all once and for all, at the click of his fingers. He's the world. She's only one of his moons. But he only asks how was her day and cooks dinner; and then kisses her on the mop and hugs under the sheets of their bed. He's ready to listen about all the smiles and joyful yells in the world if only in response to pour out about shudders and dying breaths.

One way or another, all that Charlie talks about comes down to the fact that they are too different. But they survive.


	11. goëtic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> is this an au? yes. what it's about? :)

If Charlie were an animal, she'd be a dead doe. From a sheaf of wheat and sunlight, her hair turns to raven feather and blueberry berries. She lines her eyes with copal, lips with grape juice. Butterflies hide in the folds of her dress; and she herself hides in the forgotten and dilapidated temple, where moonlight can be visible through the roof. Here she's safe from what has flooded the world outside. Here she can forget about all the horrors she'd experienced. Until now, only dreams did remind her of that pain and suffering; dreams that look like a mess of meaningless pictures and are scattered with dust on the wind as soon as she opens her eyes.

She overcame a long way and on that way she'd seen many overgrown altars and churches – such as this one. There are guards here, too. They're dressed in the Uniform of the Sun and greet their teeth from the cold that reigns inside, going around halls with gilded spears at the ready. He's here as well. He, with blood-dyed hair and finger rings; the supreme general that so often visits this place. Does he know that during his empty, atheistic prayer, she hides behind the columns on the upper floors, directly above the statue of the Sun? Knows that it was his people who caused her to dye her hair, put on rags?

This isn't important. Perhaps Charlie once knew him – only now his name slips from under her tongue like a nimble fish. For some reason, it seems to her she ended up in this world by stupid chance; by coincidence of rivers-circumstances or outbreaks-explosions.

If she were an animal, she'd be a dead doe. And he – a hunter, she thinks, erring. And their relationship would end with a shot in the heart.


	12. 3 times we kissed (and what got out of it)

When it happens the first time, Charlie acutely hears the ticking of an antique clock from the side – almost feels it in her veins. They are in her office and the air around rattles with anticipation of new beginnings. Here they used to talk about the hotel and raising bills; sheer trivia and trifles that make up their partnership. Until recently, the princess of Hell was sure of this as much as the word “holy” could correspond to her. What lies in the very depths of her chest can be muffled and hidden where no-no one will find it. Her and radio demon ties only business; arrangement; not-contract. She's ready to repeat this to the very end and even further, but at that moment at her desk, at that very moment when Alastor's hand gently pulls her closer and his lips cover hers – at that very moment this simple mantra flies out her head like a birdie. She doesn't notice she gets closer to meet his touch and his mouth. Tiny sparks dance back and forth across her skin. Making its way through the curtains, Hell's sun spills paint under their feet, softly kissing the features of their merged faces.

This is too unexpected and too beautiful, and Charlie feels like she's a lighted candle that has long been waiting for the moment to inflame the darkness in front of her. Maybe this is the way. Maybe this is the chance.

In the second, their lips unite in a duel like two blades. Charlie has so many words on her tongue to describe everything she feels for the demon that lays his hands on her. Tenderness. Shyness. Uncertainty. Passion. _Love_. All that is so terrible to utter; all that splashes inside like the sea. She tiptoes to wrap her arms around his neck. He grins straight into their kiss, to which she gently nips his elbow and pulls him lower. Lower and lower, until gravity throws them onto a bed with red linen and the princess blinks, stunned. She doesn't want this to end, no-no. But she's not sure she can do the next step. And of course, her insecurity is caught like a butterfly in a snare, noticed as soon as only lovers can. Alastor withdraws – his breathing has still not returned to normal and Charlie runs fingertips over his lips, bewitched. She doesn't know how does he feel, but at their first meeting, she couldn't even think their relationship would go so far.

She reads everything by his lips. If you don't want to – the radio demon exhales – we won't do anything. But taking a deep breath, like before jumping from a height, Charlie only pulls him closer. And yes, she's a little scared. But more than anything, she's confident that after-after-after, she won't regret it.

The third time, Charlie's nose tickles the smell of wildflowers, bees buzz above her head and a sharp, warm feeling beats in her heart. She knows that this spring field is just a cunning illusion created by her partner, that now, with his head on her knees, sings an old 20's melody under his nose. From this, everything around doesn't cease to seem real and welcoming, like their own little Heaven in the ocean of lava. Like what she always wanted to achieve. Now all this is bent to her knees at the behest of her lover, and euphoric, Charlie can't stop giving him fleeting kisses. The brief touch of their lips is the best feeling in the world – the princess cannot imagine that there is anything capable to top that. However, before she couldn't even imagine that in a place like this one can be happy. Before, she believed that the point is to strive to where sinners are forbidden; and before, she thought that in cruel and incinerating Hell there are no higher feelings. Now she understands this is all a lie. Hundreds of thousands of those feelings coexist in every angel, demon, and human. Emotions. Affections. And in the end, wherever you turn, love inexorably is the answer to every question asked.

A butterfly sits on a strand of her hair and Alastor lazily sweeps it away. I'll follow you to the ends of the world – Charlie wants to tell him, but only bites her lip and gives him a new, ringing kiss. He knows that. And he'll do just the same for her.


	13. up to the top

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> part 2 of [x](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21574612/chapters/51623350)

Everything in this place needs to be earned. Including his forgiveness. Alastor turns an annoyed gaze away from the demon at his feet, begging to give them a second chance. He never shows weakness, compassion or concern – three rules on which was built his entire criminal empire. Just like now, the prayers of others touch him little. Much more – thoughts buzzing in the head; like a swarm of bees interfering the existence of purity and clarity. Like a curse. He's cursed. With her fluffy eyelashes, narrow shoulder blades and stray curls that cannot be forgotten. She doesn't deserve to work in that dirty place, not at all; and truthfully – doesn't deserve to be here, under, too. Alastor doesn't know what sin weighs her soul but is almost sure he can let it go. Enough's to find her again.

Again – and she looks at him a little less fearfully, rather with curiosity hiding somewhere in the depths of the pupils. Of course, not every time you are offered to split off a cheap strip club and sit on the neck of one of the most powerful creatures in Hell. Alastor plucks the pearls of beads in his long fingers, one by one; his welcoming gift. On her thin neck, they look a little rude, but maybe it's because the demoness herself is fragile and thin as melting ice. At their restaurant table excitedly sway waiters, wishing to please. My name's Charlie – she says so quiet it can be considered a whisper. I have a deal for you – grins Alastor. A contract.

Is in accompanying him to receptions and parties, everywhere the rich and soulless take their lovers, toys or pets. At first, she recoils – she is neither the first nor the second not the third – but calms down under his decorated with icing sugar, honey words. Alastor really doesn't require much. He just wants to see her next to him. Wants to possess her, except for that taking nothing and offering in return everything her soul desires.

In the first week, however, he realizes it's not much. Charlie just dreams of a soft landing spot, a corner of heaven in endless lava abysses. Trying to find a home for herself, she walked countless miles with the burdens of past behind her. Alastor offers to give it up and she's relieved to accept this offer. His house is now theirs. It blooms roses.

Despite that Charlie's trying hard to grow poppies. Perhaps, Alastor thinks, he had once met her. Whether it was before death, or in one of the countless alternative realities that puzzle down the universe; he cannot know.

She no longer dances as before (he wouldn't let her, too jealous), but still retains the grace of a fallen angel, which so fascinated him. She has her hair in a long ponytail and pretends to laugh at the jokes of his business partners, and then passionately kisses him in the darkness of an opera house – and who cares what everyone thinks, they're masters of their own. For him, desire to possess gets replaced by the desire to have. Never let her go and never let her get hurt over the sharp edges of this world. Never leave alone. Keep like a precious antique brooch, a family relic that cannot be sold under any pretext.

There is something quite selfish about this, Alastor thinks, holding a glass of liquor in his hands and watching Charlie bustle over the flowers. But he doesn't care. Just as she.


	14. pick roses / find death

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: i should write genderbend  
> also me: *proceeds writing 2000+ words of gay shit*

More than anything in the world, prince Charlie wants to get out of here. The walls of his home-palace deject him to quiet sighs, and do not help brightening up that dejection neither the bright scarlet roses of his garden, nor the marble sculptures of his halls, not the oil portraits of his family above the spiral staircases. Unfortunately, he's the heir to the throne, and thus every one of his smallest action is watched by numerous nannies and royal advisers; like kites guarding reckless prey. Oh how often he asked his father and mother for such desirable walks outdoor, how passionately dreamed of finding new friends. The first time that permission was given to him, however, the outside world had got to be an instant disappointment, for however you look, on the streets of Pentagram city always reign only death, oppression, and darkness. Unaccustomed to that fact, like a fledgling chick that'd barely jumped out his parental, way too comfortable nest, prince rushed back to the protection of his home, and for many long years forgot about his old dreams. Only curiosity is a trait one cannot hide and cannot put a chain on; and soon, Charlie wanted a sip of freedom once more. An idea settled in his head – perhaps stupid, possibly risky, but no less intrusive – to create a place where his demon lieges could rehabilitate themselves and find a way to Heaven. His innate gentleness was reinforced by a firm faith in his ideals, and so the king and the queen of Hell did only sigh in the end, blessing his extraordinary project.

Spun a series of worries. The hotel's construction and the search for the first settlers dragged on with a slow train of days – when Charlie, with a blood-red necktie and wheat hair pulled back, stepped into the light of the news show's cameras, clearing throat to report his achievements, he expected anything. Except for that insulting laughter he seemed to twirl in his head all the way back, and there – in his own room, on the bed. How he wanted to make clear that his lieges are capable of more than drunken fights in bars and selling their bodies. But days passed, and not a living soul wanted to gift a thought to his hotel.

Just like that, he ended back in the walls of the royal palace as a crown prince, and therefore an obligatory guest of an annual ball. No matter how disgusting to him is all this luxurious performance full of false smiles and simulated compliments, Charlie firmly decided to take advantage of this, for example, to find much-needed sponsors who could join his side because of the influence of his family. So now, with a light gait so characteristic of him, he passes arched spans and wide balconies, looking for a demon with whom he could start a conversation. But here too he's looked at maliciously, pitifully. As if he is an animal thrown to die, shot fawn that got out of his house only to fall into the clutches of a hunter. This is annoying. After – depressing. At a darkened column far from the ballroom, he stops to take a few sips of sweet punch. Loses time in gloomy thoughts.

“You don't like fun, mon cher?”

The voice is so unexpected that the prince jumps on spot and opens eyes wide, turning around. A demon is standing in front of him – and Charlie knows him well, recalling royal manuscripts – whose eyes are grinning no worse than his sharp-toothed mouth, and whose costume is elaborately elegant. On any one or another, such a suit would look platitudinous. On him – fits bloody good.

Charlie wants to answer, but the words are frozen ice cubes on his tongue.

In such far now youth, Charlie's mother warned him to shun those called Overlords – akin to Archangels, they make up the highest circle of Hell and dream of overthrowing his father on their way to the throne. Few stated this openly, and even fewer actually tried it. But Lucifer is strong and witty when his son is a victim much easier, and therefore in the first years of life, Charlie's parents fussed over him like hens. Then it only annoyed him. Now he understands.

He doesn't tell family he's meeting with one of their enemies. Of course, the radio demon never did anything to them – as far as the prince knew himself – but at the thought of warning his father with such news, the young heir only swallows, nervously. He opens the door to one of the most luxurious restaurants in Hell and looks around as if he's been driven into a trap. To some extent it is true. Charlie does not believe that his new acquaintance is ready to contribute to the development of his plan freely. Not like him, not in a place like this. Even less he believes that the deal will be possible to draw up without signing any contracts; therefore, having seen the red-haired demon at one of the distant tables, he counts to ten before taking the first step. He must concentrate. The life of his enterprise may depend on this conversation.

“Oh, prince! How sweet it is to see you again,” Alastor purrs and reaches forward, grabbing Charlie's hand with a deft movement and touching it with lips in a cheaply-pathos gesture.

Prince's cheeks flare up nevertheless, and he hopes that under a ton of white powder it is not too noticeable. They order wine. However, drinks only the radio demon.

“You said you're interested in the hotel. My hotel. I want to know what can you offer.”

Charlie says it like it's not him who desperately needs sponsorship, visitors and advertising. A trait inherited from mother – if you want someone's help, do not humble yourself to pleas. Demand, head raised proudly and a bold grin in your eyes. Lilith always knew how to survive. In the end, even millennia in Hell didn't force her to stop growing roses that her son loved to pluck as a child.

“Why, you worry so much, my lord.” The prince raises his chin like he is wounded, hiding under this gesture shackling shyness. He should behave appropriately. “You and I are not in a hurry, and have a lot of time to discuss all the smallest details of my participation in the fate of your...” sarcasm penetrates Alastor's voice, though difficult to catch behind radio noise “hotel.”

“Keep in mind,” Charlie hurries to declare for some reason, clutching his knee in a hand, digging fingernails into the skin, painfully. It helps, albeit a little, “I'm not going to sign any contract. I'm the prince of Hell and I can demand your help if you decide to offer it” something in this sentence feels terribly wrong, yet after a brief stumble, Charlie continues: “But I do not intend to play games with you.”

He almost expects the radio demon to get up and leave. Squeezing his microphone with thin fingers, raising his eyes to the ceiling and smirking – full of blood and teeth. He'll leave this place in even steps, breaking the last hopes for help.

But Alastor ain't leaving. He props his cheek with a palm and tilts his head, eyes seemingly getting to the very nature of the prince that so inadvertently decided to follow him. Mumbles briefly:

“Fair. I am ready to help you, my lord.”

Charlie bites his cheek from the inside because he is very-very afraid of what he's getting into.

And so, the first few days – which then, like a river, rapidly flow into weeks and months – Charlie assures himself that everything's going well. Simply amazing. His partner lures more and more visitors to the hotel, with that same gift of persuasion that hooked the prince. None of them, however, move out; as well as none go to Heaven, and the heir of Hell spends sleepless nights on planning new situations in which his wards could prove themselves best. None of this seems to help. Or helps not as he'd like. The overpopulation problem stands before his eyes like a red flag, and yet when Alastor offers the prince to unwind and visit his, as he didn't fail to put, “modest home”, he agrees. To his own surprise and gloomy disapproval of his parents that, having barely gotten known about his deal with the radio demon, immediately tried to cut it short. Charlie could imagine their reaction. His father would arrogantly lift his head, hissing curses on thin lips; his mother would sigh heavily, shaking head in disappointment. Least of all in the world did he want to seem an ungrateful son. Most of all in the world did he want freedom and autonomy.

Therefore, legs trembling, Charlie jumps into an old cab whose coachman is a demon with sharp, curved black horns. Alastor probably has more than a dozen such servants, for he goes out into the spotlight rarely, yet effectively. Like a real, alas unnamed, Count of this fiery kingdom. With each blooming day, Charlie blushes more and more from his fleeting glances – so and now he instantly turns away as soon as his partner greets him with a bow. This is so in the spirit of Alastor. And absolutely not at usage of the prince's court. He hesitates at the entrance to a luxurious mansion, which is a terrible rarity in these regions. Everything here smells of that rare, expensive type of danger that can be found only in places like this. Its trail intertwines with the aroma of red irises in the garden – they shimmer with velvety petals, crimson on top and golden down. Here, flowers of red hues are not uncommon, and yet something attracts Charlie to reach out to one of them, to touch the immortal beauty just barely, almost expecting a drop of blood on the pads of his fingers, as if the flower might suddenly smear. If Alastor notices this, he doesn't say anything, and slowly, they enter the arches of his refuge. It is surprisingly strict, without excessive pretentiousness and, of course, light colors. This isn't the only place the radio demon lives in, rather something like a country house. The prince knows everything – he's learned – about the year he died in, and can acutely understand the desire to replace the pallor of life with upper luxuries of the _after_ life. He takes more and more steps forward, and the door behind him closes tightly. This is a little scary. From all the walls of this house hang dead deers' heads. Charlie has a tickle up his throat and suddenly feels to himself unimaginably small and looks at Alastor in indecision – as if just now did he think of why has he been brought here. Alastor looks at him. Like death at a lamb.

Time turns to sand, painfully-slowly pouring down the overturned clock.

“I...” Charlie wants to ask a thousand questions and say a thousand words, but not a single one comes out his mouth, and so he just embraces himself in a futile attempt to defend.

Oh he's so stupid. Stupid little boy who decided to believe he's wanted to help. That his idea can be loved. That he can be.

A tiny dagger appears in Alastor's hands – it is decorated with marvelous carvings, though now it matters not. Charlie watches him come closer and closer, putting such a sharp weapon to his neck. Did he expect this? No. Yes. He really doesn't know. Both mother and father were right in distrust of all who were equal in power to them. Were right protecting him from his own kingdom. And from the Eden snakes that lived inside it, pretending to be benefactors. They were right. But he never learned anything.

“I'm sorry?” as a result, the prince half-asks, half-speaks, and looks directly into Alastor's lead-scarlet eyes. He's too close. But why apologize? Unless it's too unbearable to voluntarily lie under the blade of his knife.

Does the radio demon even want this? In the features of his subtle smile hides an inner struggle. Charlie manages to catch only its echoes – he's too young and inexperienced to understand all its depth. He understands only one thing. The dagger presses harder, and then Alastor covers his lips with his own and pulls him into a painful (for both of them) kiss. After another second, the world goes red spots.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hope someone _does_ write that hades/persephone au and i hope someone _will_ link me to it ~~pwetty please~~


	15. fin

And by the deepest sea, near a cliff that abruptly slides down, at the very edge of the world they find each other again.

Charlie's hair is braided, thin sandals on her legs and the sound of bells in her smile. Alastor has a tired look, a ruby ring on his index finger and monocle dusty from time.

At first, they don't know what to say – just look; two souls who despaired of finding each other in a maelstrom of colors and worlds.

Then Charlie steps closer.

“You found me.”

And in her voice not a bit condemnation that it took so long.

Alastor takes her wrists in his hands, studying the gilded bracelets on them. Only a whisper flies off his lips, 'cause he is too tired to scream.

“I would find you in every universe, every version of time and matter, every single world.”

She laughs and takes his face in her soft palms. No more pain and hide and seek and death. Only this moment that lasts forever and mends their souls.

“I know.”

The sea beats against the shore and being dissolves in waves.


End file.
